Meanwhile at Downton Abbey
by sakurasencha
Summary: A take on the Series 3 Christmas Special based solely on the promos.


_I've compiled all of the trailers to come up with my own version of the S3 Christmas special. This one comes with a stern warnging: very silly, very irreverent, and relies heavily on fandom in-jokes. You have been warned; proceed with caution._

_Special thanks to **3down1up** for betaing!  
_

* * *

_**Meanwhile at Downton Abbey**  
_

**Downton Abbey, Circa September 1921**

Two dozen trunks were corded and bound to the back of several motors. Controlled chaos - that's what Violet always called the departure day for the Crawley family's annual visit to Scotland, which, as an age-old family tradition never to be missed and which everyone knew about and looked eagerly forward to, was taken every year without fail.

Mary loitered behind in the foyer after the family had said their goodbyes to Tom and Sybbie, bouncing the little one in her arms.

"I'm still not sure why you won't come with us. You know our cousins would gladly welcome you, and you are very much part of the family."

Mary made to give up her precious niece, and Tom shook his head as he took hold of the proffered child. "I wouldn't feel comfortable. And I think I'd like some time alone, with Sybbie. Some space would be nice after…well, after everything."

"I understand." Mary smiled, and Sybbie imparted her two cents into the conversation. The two paused a moment to admire the nonsensical babbling. "But we will miss you," Mary finally said, planting a firm kiss on Sybbie's nose. "And you," she said to her father, but mercifully omitted the latter gesture. "Well, Tom, I suppose you're in charge while we're gone." She raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure I don't have to warn you not to get into any trouble while we're away."

Tom feigned an offended look. "Come, now, Mary. When have you ever known me to be a troublemaker?"

"I shall save my lecture on mad-cap elopements for another time."

"It was all your sister's doing, I swear it."

They shared an amused albeit sad smile. It had been some time before they could openly discuss their dearly departed, their darling Sybil. Grief-stricken glances had been their mode of communication for the first few weeks, till small, tentative remembrances could be spoken of, shared, and finally smiled fondly over. The healing process was slow and cruel, but happening, and perhaps faster than either of them would care to admit.

They gave one last parting look, shook hands, and bid each other adieu.

* * *

**Meanwhile downstairs….**

His clenched brow released a few droplets of sweat, mingling with the small dribbles of wine that trickled down the side of the decanter. Thomas mentally cursed as a pesky nose leaned over his shoulder, breaking his concentration.

"Should you be doing that?" Jimmy wondered.

"Of course I should," the under butler replied, indignant.

"But isn't that the butler's job?"

"It's the under butler's job, Jimmy. Everybody knows that."

This explanation did not answer, and left Jimmy still confused. "Then just what does an under butler do?" Thomas' head snapped up. "Different from a butler, I mean."

Thomas scoffed with disdain. What a stupid question!

"What a stupid question," Thomas affirmed verbally. The nerve of the first footman, questioning his position in the household so openly! The butler and under butler – any idiot could plainly see the striking difference between the two, that the job descriptions of each could not be more different than night and day, east and west, male and female –

Ivy giggled suddenly at some remark Alfred had just made, which sent Jimmy scurrying to investigate and left the under butler to continue his under butlering in peace.

"Something funny?" Jimmy asked the duo as he approached, hips swaying, swagger at full force.

Ivy's eyelashes batted shamelessly. "It's nothing. Alfred was just telling us all some story about his time as a waiter."

"You'll never believe it, Jimmy, but he once served the prime minister!" Edna chimed in.

"Not quite…." Alfred corrected. "I once served _prime rib_ to a _minister_."

Edna frowned – she was growing beyond bored with these lowly peasants and their lowly anecdotes – and flounced away. She had no time for such tomfoolery, for out of the corner of her sly eye she'd seen a much more interesting Tom slide through the servant's entrance and move up the stairs. Tom Branson - the family's former chauffeur who had somehow risen through the ranks to actually dine with and live among the family. She'd heard it all on her first day from Anna, about how he'd gotten a job as a journalist and come back to Downton Abbey triumphant, eventually becoming accepted by the family and given the position as estate manager. That was certainly a story to inspire, and something to aspire to. There was something else to the tale, something about being banished from his homeland and tragically watching his wife suffocate to death or summat; but she hadn't really been paying too much attention, and all she really knew were three basic facts: he was handsome, he was well off, and he was _available_.

She slinked up the stairs to see him enter the library.

_Well_, Edna thought to herself deviously while reaching for a feather duster. _Just my luck that I've some dusting to do in the library!_

"Edna!" Mrs. Hughes bellowed. Edna suppressed a groan. The housekeeper had a knack for being exactly where she wasn't wanted. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

Edna gulped and whirled around. "Just heading up to the library to do some dusting. There's nothing in it, Mrs. Hughes, honest!"

The housekeeper's eyes missed nothing, and were narrowing dangerously. "Don't tell me you were going to dust the book shelves with a _feather_ duster? You know very well that we always use furniture polish in that room!"

Edna was too stunned to consider her narrow escape. "But I just used the polish yesterday, and –"

"That's enough, Edna! There are rules for this way of life, and if you're not prepared to live by them, then it's not the right life for you."

Edna grumbled her way back downstairs to fetch the blasted furniture polish. If those were the rules of her life, then she could well afford to give it up straightaway, and if she were Mrs. Branson rather than Edna-the-maid she could dust the furniture with whatever she well pleased!

* * *

**Meanwhile in Crawley House….**

The hinges on the door gave a disturbing creak as Isobel let herself in. _They need oiling_, she mused. _I must let someone know._

But who? The house seemed rather quiet and empty, and even a fool could see why: Matthew gone to live up at the big house and visiting Scotland anyway. Molesley only too happy to accompany her undutiful son wherever he happened to wander off to. And now Mrs. Bird and Ethel, too, were gone away, off to better or perhaps worse pastures. Mrs. Crawly could not say, not being the type to do solid follow up work once her foundlings went their merry ways.

No, there were no lives nearby with which she could interfere, no arguments to referee and resolve with her conflict-solving acumen. Were Isobel Crawley a lady with an inactive mind, her thoughts might have dawdled and eventually strayed to the inevitable subject of exactly _why_ she was left so alone so often, what her purpose was in a place where she really had nothing to contribute, and just when everyone seemingly started to forget that she existed.

But Isobel Crawley was no such lady. Instead her mind was constantly on the move, planning her next step, and without further ado she walked to her office and rung up the hospital.

* * *

**Meanwhile in the village…**

The annual fair came once every eight years to Grantham village. It didn't seem very fair to Daisy, not when all the other villages got their annual fairs _at least_ once a year.

She was pondering all this idly in her jams and jellies stall, "Jams and Jellies by Daisy" (Mr. Mason had remained strangely silent when asked for his opinion on the moniker), with Mrs. Patmore just beside her, hawking a variety of delectable looking cakes. "Baby steps" is how Mr. Mason had described it when he cajoled her into taking on a stall at the fair. She could start off slowly, building up her recipe book, establishing a clientele, till after a time she'd be ready to take over the farm and start her business.

"_But I can't just leave, just like that!" Daisy had protested._

"_Why not?"_

"_I've never had a life outside of service, and me job…. it's all I've ever known. And I couldn't just leave Mrs. Patmore like that, not after everything she's taught me. I'd feel like I was abandoning her."_

_Mr. Mason had smiled. "Then you'll just have to convince her to come with you."_

"Having a catnap?" Beryl asked, launching Daisy back to the present. She looked over to the indomitable cook who was thumbing through a thick stack of pound notes. "Not too bad for the first day. All but sold out," Beryl cackled gleefully. "There might be something into this business scheme you've got going, Daisy."

"Let's have a break, then!" Daisy suggested. "I'd love me a ride on the carousel, and Edna says the men are getting ready for the tug-o-war!"

They traipsed along the fair grounds till they reached said carousel. Tom was there with Sybbie, balancing her on a unicorn.

"Do you mind if…. if I take this one," Thomas tentatively asked.

Branson blinked. "You mean the unicorn?"

"Yes," Thomas replied tightly. "The unicorn."

Although still perplexed, complete grief had robbed Tom of that good-natured spark, rendering him an Irishman with little to no fight left in him, and so he did not bother arguing, did not even hesitate in plucking little Sybbie up from her seat, at which cold-hearted removal she began to wail grandly. "She wants this one," Tom said with a shrug.

"Right!" Edna bounded up suddenly to the pair. "Why don't you take Sybbie on the unicorn with you, Thomas? That way everyone can get what they want!" _Including me!_ she thought to herself mischievously.

The plan was hatched, and Sybbie appeared quite comfortable in Thomas' lap, leaving Tom to stand alone – a grown man bereft of a child – on a merry-go-around, and looking somewhat sheepish and silly.

Edna cleared her throat, snapping Tom out of his stupor but doing nothing to ease his discomfort. "With those two settled we should find our own seats," she said to him, gesturing for them to move forward. They walked a few paces till they found a pair of unclaimed seats, right in front of the housekeeper and butler who were seated on a buffalo and panda respectively. "Why don't you sit on this one!" Edna said brightly.

Tom's eyebrows rose. "You mean the giant bird?"

"The giant cock!" she corrected as Mrs. Hughes spit out her drink.

* * *

**Meanwhile in Scotland…**

"…and that's how Mr. Swire, a regular London solicitor, came to amass such a vast fortune."

Rose was breathless. "That's the most fascinating story I've ever heard in my life, Matthew!" she cooed breathlessly into Matthew's ear, rendering Matthew somewhat breathless.

Mary's face was a furnace, her voice cool as a cucumber. "Enough of that, Matthew, we don't want to bore them with such inconsequential details."

The three young people went on to discuss something much more consequential, namely the overdue discussion of Matthew and Mary's year old nuptials and the impending baby bump that Mary was fondly rubbing.

"But why weren't you there?" Mary asked of the Flintshires, slightly perturbed. "Mama said you'd told her you'd be coming."

"But we were there," Susan yawned from the overstuffed chaise. "Didn't you see us? We were in the back pew, right next to Rosamund."

"I certainly didn't notice," Matthew said with grin. "Though I confess I had _much_ on my mind on my wedding day…."

Mary felt her face flush, and held her breath.

"….that is to say, my wedding _night_!"

Mary again felt her face flush. "Really, Matthew!" Was the man unable to cease vaguely alluding to the goings on of their bedchamber for a single moment? But rather than appear mortified everyone, her own father included, instead lavished Matthew with knowing smirks.

It was all simply too much to bear, Mary decided with a sigh. She could not explain her unaccountable mood as of late. Perhaps it was the pregnancy, but then Sybil was just as much a darling as she ever was while waddling about Downton in her terminal month wheareas Mary had only grown more irritable and grumpy in proportion to her expanding waist line. She had begun to feel as though she was living in a dream world – a very boring, monotonous dream world. Teatime in an hour, a trip to Scotland next month. When had it all begun to feel so pedestrian, so rote? If she had to mark a date in the change, it would hit close to the anniversary of Sybil's death.

And that too, must contribute to her mood, the ache in her heart wrought by Sybil's ever-present absence. All she wanted that very moment was to see her sister's carefree smile, to pretend that Sybil was merely back at home, waiting for her family to return. For Mary Crawley life, her life, appeared much more fleeting and meaningless when she saw how quickly it could be taken away.

* * *

**Meanwhile in a subplot completely unrelated to the rest of the episode...**

Anna laughed as her foot stumbled over a rock.

Mr. Bates caught her on the descent and braced her in his hefty arms. "Steady, there," he cautioned.

"I wouldn't have any trouble if I could see where I was going." Determined to mutiny, she crossed her arms, refusing to budge. "Really, Mr. Bates. This would be easier if I wasn't blind folded."

"But then it wouldn't be a surprise."

Anna giggled. Leave it to her Mr. Bates to choose romance over practicality, but God help her that's exactly why she loved him. He steered her towards an open clearing, and when she was instructed to remove her blindfold she saw to her delight an ample feast waiting on a polka dotted blanket.

"A picnic!" she squealed. He took her hand and the pair strode over to the basket of food, nary a limp in sight, and plopped down to enjoy the cool breeze of a Scottish Autumn.

The bright sunshine played across his pale, Irish face as he said, "I prepared everything myself."

She turned to offer him a wry smile. "Oh, did you? Well I can guess what we're having then." He parried with a knowing look as Anna laughed. "Our favorite, of course," she said, reaching into the basket as the sky suddenly turned a malicious gray and sizzled with a sinister air. "Pie!" she cackled evilly as they both broke into uncontrollable laughter.

* * *

**Meanwhile in Branson's bedroom….**

Branson took off his shirt. He waited for the usual attending commentary, but then remembered that Sybil was dead, and sighed again. That was all he ever seemed to be doing lately, sighing over love won and love lost. Not a single hour went by that he didn't acutely feel Sybil's death, a terrible stab in his chest that after over a year's time had since waned to a pinprick, but still existed nonetheless, and he feared it always would.

Branson looked down to his chest. A few cropping hairs were eking their way through and he decided to proceed with his grooming habits, those picked up in the early days of marriage. The familiar regime was comforting, reminded him of happier days, the sort which he could frequently hearken back to when he needed an emotional pick-me-up:

"_What are you going to do about those?" Sybil had asked one night after merely a few days into matrimony._

"_What do you mean 'those?'"_

"'_Those!'" Sybil gestured wildly. In time Branson understood she was obliquely referring to his chest hairs._

"_I don't do anything with them. They're just…. there."_

"_Well…. it looks rather unkempt. You might want to think about doing something about them."_

Branson knew as he ripped off the waxed on cloth that those would be the memories he would cherish, now and always, as the stinging pain would well remind him.

He was mid-wince when the door swung suddenly open, revealing the new maid, the one who he had shared a carousel ride with and whose mouth was now hanging open in full-blown shock.

"Edna?" he asked dazedly.

"Oh! Mr. Branson! I didn't know you'd be here!"

"In the middle of the changing hour?"

"What I meant was, I thought you'd be finished. You're always so fast at changing and I wanted to do a bit of dusting in here."

"I'd normally be done, but I had some other things I had to take care of," he explained, gesturing to the bubbling pot of wax resting on the nightstand.

"You wouldn't happen to need any…. help, would you?"

Branson mulled the offer over. It was exponentially easier with two, and gestured for Edna to enter. With their combined effort the hair removal was accomplished much more expediently (yet no less painfully), and when it was over Branson sighed.

"I used to do this with Sybil…" he said dejectedly.

Edna, for her part, was a savvy girl. She knew an invitation when she saw one, and considered comparisons to a dead wife as good as signed, sealed, and delivered.

She leaned over suddenly and kissed him, feeling him instinctually begin to respond.

_Success! _the triumphant chord rang in her head, until he quickly pulled back with an eerie expression on his face.

Edna tittered nervously. "Well then, Mr. Branson. What did you think of _that_?" she asked saucily.

Branson blinked.

"Get out of my room."

Edna grumbled her way down the stairs, and nearly plowed into a frantic Mrs. Hughes when she reached the last step.

"Edna! I've been looking all over for you. Where have you been, girl?"

"I was just upstairs doing some dusting."

"Please tell me you haven't been using _that_ thing," Mrs. Hughes spat, pointing an accusatory finger at the bedraggled feather duster.

Edna sighed. "Of course not, Mrs. Hughes." She trudged down after Mrs. Hughes to the cleaning cupboard in defeated spirits. It looked like she would be using furniture polish for some time to come.

* * *

**Meanwhile back in the Highlands….**

It had been a rousing hunt, and the fellows had come back with a considerably large haul of birds. Upon returning home, the menfolk had then retired to their large and comfy bedchambers to be dressed by another man, and then, dressed to the nines, came down to enjoy a lavish and sumptuous feast. It was after this feast that Matthew sat, relaxed and completely at ease, as he puffed out another billow of smoke from one of the finest cigars known to mankind.

"Another glass of port?" Shrimpy offered.

Matthew held out his glass to the stalking butler. "Please." The deep red liquid, undoubtedly more expensive than even life-giving blood, sloshed in the glass as Matthew brought it to his lips for a sip. "But as I was saying," he continued after a gulp, "I think it high time we learned to live more….simply."

Shrimpy guffawed. "Whatever do you mean by that, laddie?"

"What Matthew means," Robert supplied, "is that we ought to change our expensive habits to suit these modern views of economy, isn't that right Matthew?"

Again the Scottish brogue laughed. "What a notion!" he cried, uncrossing his legs, unfortunately forgetting he had chosen to go commando under his kilt that evening on a dare issued by his valet.

Robert shuddered, and turned his attention towards Matthew. "You keep rebuking us with the same charge, but tell me, you don't mind having that car of yours, now do you Matthew?"

"No, and I'm eternally grateful you convinced me of the purchase. But I consider that more of a convenience than a luxury." He smiled. "I'm not sure I could convince Mary to take up bicycling, even on one built for two."

Eventually the men tired of each other's company, and after slaking their appetites for alcohol and smoke rejoined the ladies in the parlor, where Rose was setting up her new gramophone.

"I'll put on some Scottish airs. We could teach you all to dance like true Highlanders!" the young Lady suggested with overt enthusiasm.

Violet looked appalled. "Replete with swords and war makeup, I suppose?"

Rose was adept at ignoring such drudgery and sallied forth. "But why don't we bring in the servants!" she squealed. "Then we'll have enough to make up a proper dance party!"

Mary's look of judgment materialized. "That's rather…unorthodox," she said.

"Oh, why not, Mary!" Matthew smiled. "Why not dance with the servants? What harm could come of it?"

"Is this a part of your plan to induce us to live more simply?"

"Maybe. Or maybe I just like dance parties." He proffered his hand down to his reposing wife as Rose herded the servants up from the dungeon where they resided. "Well, Mary. Shall we?"

But Mary refrained, citing her protruding belly as excuse. Matthew floated away to claim her cousin as his dance partner, and she watched the figures dancing gaily, Anna smiling as she jumped in the air, O'Brien looking slightly less odious as her fringe bobbed in time with her steps. "I wish Edith hadn't decided to leave early. She would have loved this," she said quietly to no one in particular, but in truth her words were meant for someone, she realized with a jolt, only that someone was much too far to hear.

The throng of dancers eventually subsided into small groups filled with pleasant but mindless conversation. Anna escaped her corner to sidle up to her mistress.

"Everything all right, milady."

Mary forced a smile. "I'm married to the love of my life, about to give birth to our first child. How could anything be wrong?"

Anna paused. She felt it wasn't her place to broach the subject but couldn't let go of the information her mistress had imparted on her the night before. "And are you completely sure you want to leave early? Tomorrow morning?"

From across the room Mary heard high pitched laughter, and plans for taking a drive out the next day in the beautiful countryside.

"Absolutely."

* * *

**Meanwhile in London...**

Edith wandered the streets, conflicted. Her friend and employer had continued his consistent pursuit of her heart and she could not claim to be sorry for it, despite her misgivings. It was nothing to do with his age or occupation, which she found more than acceptable. No, the fattest fly in the ointment was his relational status, which was currently designated as "married."

_And that won't change anytime soon_. Though Edith never held fast to all the traditional standards she considered the marital vows as beyond sacred, something never to be trifled with or taken lightly, unless of course she felt like it.

And for some strange, inexplicable reason she did _not_ feel like it now, completely waylaying her latest endeavor at romance.

_But I must be strong_, Edith told herself as she tread the familiar path to his office. She would not let him convince her to defy her conscience, or to bend her flexible morality in a direction that it had previously gone before but was now staunchly repulsed by. Besides, she reasoned, she had an abominable track record at picking her own suitors, and decided to rebuff any of his romantic attempts during their meeting.

"Lady Edith," Gregson greeted, and motioned to a chair.

Edith sat down. "Mr. Gregson," she began. "I've brought my latest article, as you requested, if you're interested in looking it over and perhaps discussing it."

"I'd love to discuss it. Perhaps…. over dinner? Tonight? At my house?"

Edith paused to take in his lascivious grin.

"I'd be delighted!" she cried.

* * *

**Meanwhile in a back alley….**

The tailor closed early that day, and Thomas narrowly missed his pick up time. Breathing a sigh of relief, he took a shortcut back to the house, satisfied that his under butler attire was now up to par.

Turning a corner, he was accosted by the sight of Jimmy being manhandled by two shady and powerful looking characters. The young man was shouting for help, and when his eyes chanced upon Thomas standing with an armful of freshly pressed ties, beckoned to him with his eyes.

_Help meeeeeee! _They pleaded.

Thomas smirked. Help Jimmy? The man who wanted him imprisoned? Where was the mercy when Thomas' job and even life was on the line? He'd never forget the way Jimmy and Alfred had turned their noses at the olive branch of toast he offered the next morning.

Thomas made to leave – tit for tat was a life long motto – but stopped when he saw something behind Jimmy that made his blood boil.

A third assailant, this one tackling a much more innocent prey, pulling on a snow- white mane, tugging on a pearlescent horn, and, worst of all – maliciously laughing over the piteous sounds of a weakly bleated whinney.

With a guttural noise that chilled everyone's blood to ice Thomas lunged into the fray.

* * *

**Meanwhile on the side of a nearly abandoned road….**

Old McGruff, though he always went by 'Gruffy', had had his existence talked up into legend by the local lads as a man who would kidnap you and eat you alive if you ever trespassed on his land. It was an exaggeration, of course – he never ate them _alive_ – but Gruffy never bothered to correct this fallacy since it kept everyone well and good away from his property.

A hermit to the core, but he wasn't heartless, and when Gruffy saw a smashed motor send smoke stack up from a ditch on the side of the road, he instinctively pulled over to see if anything remained that he could take home for dinner.

To his surprise, the occupants were alive – barely.

The Lady's unkempt hair was matted down with blood, and when the injured man beside her saw Gruffy approach, he opened his cracked and bloodied lips and began to speak.

"Tell Mary….." the man croaked.

"Yes?" Gruffy replied.

"Tell them…"

"Yes?"

"Tell everyone …."

"Yes, yes yes?" Who knew that a man's final words could be so agonizingly slow in coming? Wasn't his time limited?

"….that I lived simply."

And with those final words the light in Matthew Crawley's baby blue eyes was eternally extinguished.

* * *

**Meanwhile in a hidden newspaper lair…**

A twirl of cigar smoke wafted sinisterly into the air. Sir Richard, newspaper tycoon and sometimes punching bag for Matthew Crawly, could not explain the sudden burst of vindication that coursed through his veins. He felt like dancing, at the very least gloating, but could do neither with all this paper work threatening to drown him. Another swig of his brandy and a voluminous cackle would have to suffice.

* * *

**Meawhile at the train station….**

Mary debarked, Anna close behind. The journey home had gone well, but as her foot alighted from the platform she felt a sudden, familiar wave of nausea.

_Blackness. Pain. A woman screaming. And Matthew, Matthew, Matthew – Matthew in danger, Matthew lying in a pool of blood, Matthew -_

A soundless scream wrenched from her lips, followed by a choked sob, and Lady Mary Crawley stumbled forward, nearly falling onto the hard pavement. Luckily Anna was quicker than gravity, and caught her mistress' arm, righted her, and steadied her as their grandfatherly chauffeur approached.

"Matthew!" Mary cried. "Matthew's in danger and I –"

Anna placed a hand on her shoulder. "You're not well, milady. We should get you home."

But something within Mary had other plans. Her clairvoyant spell had triggered a hard and painful contraction – the first of many, Mary would later discover – and she grit her teeth as it passed.

Her voice did not waver as she spoke. "No, not home Anna." She turned to the chauffeur. "Please, you must take us to the hospital immediately!" The chauffeur led the way, parting the crowds, and sped them to the village hospital in a thrice. Mary was processed and delivered to a hospital bed just as Dr. Clarkson burst through an office door.

"Mrs. Crawley! Thank God you're still here! You must come quickly! It's your daughter in law!"

Isobel looked up askance. "Daughter in law…?" she questioned. "Oh, you mean Mary."

"Yes, yes, Lady Mary!" he nearly shouted.

Isobel rose staidly. "Now calm down, Richard. Tell me; what's happened?"

"She arrived with her lady's maid a few minutes ago," he explained on the way. "It appears she's gone into premature labor."

Isobel followed quickly and efficiently after the good doctor, a look of dread mounting on her face.

_An indeterminate number of hours later…_

A baby's cry echoed into the night.

Her body wracked with shivers, Mary rested easily against the sweat-soaked bed as a baby was handed gently into her arms.

"A beautiful baby girl!"

The final word had barely escaped the ignorant nurses' mouth when the entire hospital went dead silent. No one moved, no one spoke, no one even breathed; and the only sound that could be heard at all was a distant cry over one, two, at least four walls, a despondent wail for the future agony of rehashed plotlines.

"A girl?" Mary finally whispered. "But…. but…how is that…?"

"These things do happen, Mary," Isobel helpfully supplied. "The important thing is that she's healthy, and that I was here to help."

"And Matthew?" Mary looked up with worry. "I had one of my visions; is he in danger? How is he?"

"Hush, darling. Matthew is…."

"He's dead, isn't he, Isobel?" Mary said with quiet horror. "I know it…. I f_elt_ it!"

Isobel could say nothing more. She'd gotten a call from Scotland a few hours earlier, and her grief was still too raw to be able to comfort others in their own.

* * *

**Meanwhile in the library….**

These were awkward circumstances, Mrs. Hughes could admit. As much as she enjoyed being the mother hen of the house even she had her limits, and a grown man sobbing into her hale Scottish arms, plastering her well-kept attire with residues of an undesirable nature, was drawing very close indeed. Naturally she could understand his distress, though she could wish that it wasn't so voluble and half as less moist.

Mr. Branson had been out on one of the tenant farms, harnessing his genetically inherent farming abilities when he first received the news. He'd flown home back to Downton straightaway and flung himself directly into Mrs. Hughes arms.

"But Matthew!" he cried. "Matthew!"

It was a rare and blessed event when one Tom Branson was left speechless; but eloquent as he was he could not find the words to express such complete and utter despair. First his true home Ireland. Then his true love Sybil. And finally his true bro Matthew. It seemed that no matter which world he chose to live in it was guaranteed to come crashing down around him, ripping away everything he held dear.

By the by Carson came down with little Sybbie, it being her afternoon playtime. He stopped short when he saw the former chauffeur openly weeping. Mrs. Hughes gave a final pat to Branson's bonny head and joined the butler and the babe.

"I take it he heard the news about Mr. Crawley."

Mrs. Hughes sighed. "Unfortunately, yes. The poor man. Hasn't he lost enough? How much more is one man expected to suffer?"

Carson jostled the baby in his arms. "He still has her," he indicated the pudgy cheek, "and it shall have to be enough to carry him through."

Branson, only two feet away, heard everything, but was wallowing so deeply could not even muster his usual indignation. Betwixt his sobs he mulled Carson's words over. Would Sybbie indeed be enough? Even after all this loss? For a brief micro-second he had thought there might be a chance with that new maid; but she was a red herring of recovery, a road that would lead nowhere. She hadn't been right for him, he had quickly realized - even her hair, pale yellow like sunbaked straw, was all wrong for him. And slowly but surely it began to dawn in Tom's mind that the only thing that would help him survive this incessant tragedy was to find the one who would be _right_ for him.

And he knew exactly where to look.

* * *

**Meanwhile in Thomas' bedroom…**

His welts had begun to subside, morphing to a sickening green that Thomas could not stomach, prompting him to cover all of the many mirrors in his room to avoid the sight. He was propped up against his headboard when he heard a tentative knock.

"Come in." A charming blonde head sporting an even more charming smile peeked through. "Jimmy?"

"Mr. Barrow. Can I…would you mind much if I came inside?" Thomas waved him in and Jimmy settled on the side of the bed. "I wanted to say thank you, for what you did back in that alleyway."

Thomas grimaced. "I did it for the unicorn."

"I know you did but…it ended up saving me as well. And I also wanted to say that I'm sorry, about before. I was only scared, you see, about what people might say about me if I wasn't angry enough."

"So you weren't really that angry about the kiss?" Thomas asked, sitting up and leaning forward.

Jimmy laughed. "I was more shocked than anything. But angry? No. Not angry."

Thomas smiled in return. Were his eyes deceiving him or was there a measure of fondness in Jimmy's eyes? A silent invitation, perhaps?

Thomas leaned forward…..

…and was abruptly stopped with a firm hand to his chest.

"Still not gay," Jimmy said flatly.

"Right," Thomas replied, retracting his lips with nod.

* * *

**Downton Abbey, Circa December 1921**

A small Christmas tree had been brought in to the library to lighten up the old tomes and dusty shelves. It was all for Sybbie's sake, who loved the room, loved Christmas trees, and who cried obnoxiously for anything she wanted till she got it.

With Sybbie #2 tucked up in the nursery, Sybbie #1 was free to scramble over anyone and anything that would let her, and had acquired three neckties and two diamond necklaces in the process, one of which was stuffed unceremoniously into her mouth. She climbed into her Da's lap and draped the second necklace over his head, causing Mary to smile and comment that it looked rather becoming on him.

"I'll have to let you borrow the matching studs for the next ball."

Tom smiled as Cora swanned into the room with a valium-popping smile.

"Mama!" Mary visibly started. "Where have you been all this time?" she asked.

"Oh, you know. Here and there." Cora heaved a heavy sigh. "It's so strange without Matthew here."

"I agree," Edith said. "First James and Patrick. Then Sybil. And now Matthew. It's all so terribly tragic. I don't know of any other family who's suffered so much loss, and I can't help but wonder if our family is somehow cursed," she said with a pointed look towards Robert.

Robert cleared his throat, taking the hint. "I would like to use this opportunity to point out that I was in no way responsible for Matthew's death," he declared.

"But didn't you suggest that he buy the car?" Tom snuck in. He felt tolerably safe in doing so, still having Sybbie on his lab whom he could use as a human shield, should the need arise.

The pointless, endless parlor talk continued. The family sat together on the sofas, chatting, laughing; and while it wasn't a very merry Christmas, and perhaps it would never be so again, at the very least it was still…. Christmas.

* * *

**Epilogue**

The most desolate lane in the entire village – the gravel walk that led to the cemetery – was now being traversed by two. Tom enjoyed the newfound company, even though he was sorry for the loss that brought Lady Mary to his side every morning on his way to pay his respects to those loved and now lost.

Mary smiled. "I heard something the other day, from Anna – rumors that there was something between you and that new maid."

"You mean Edna?" Tom chuckled. "No, there was nothing in that. Thought for a minute there might be, but there wasn't."

"Well, I'm glad." And she genuinely was, though why she could not rightly say….

They stood together side by side, staring sadly at a duel set of tombstones. Is there a more sorrowful sight than a freshly dug grave? Mary did not think so, and bent over to run her gloved finger over the engraved epitaph that was the final resting place of her beloved:

_HERE LIES MATTHEW CRAWLEY_

_HE LIVED SIMPLY_

"It's an odd thing to put on a tombstone, isn't it?" Tom asked.

"I suppose." Mary sighed as she stood back up. She turned towards him. "But it's what he would have wanted. He said so to the man who found him, Mr. McGruff, right before he died."

"Where would you or I be without death bed confessions?" Tom rued.

"Where would any of us be?"

They smiled together. Birds sang in the treetops above, and the wind picked up to rip the last of the Autumn leaves away. The branches now stood bare, and that's how the two of them felt in that moment – stripped of everything – all the pride, the masks, the walls of life built to shield them from the cruelty of the world.

They took each other's hand.

"I'm glad I stayed at Downton. Especially now."

"So am I."

"And I was thinking, Mary, about you and me. About everything we've lost." He looked earnestly into her eyes. "I know it's hard to move on – God, do I know. But I think it can be done, and maybe…"

"Don't say anything else, Tom," Mary whispered. Life was a journey, and often a painful one. But Tom and Mary discovered that morning there could be peace and healing once again.

They leaned in, tears glistening in both their eyes as they shared a passionate kiss over their deceased spouses' graves.

.

.

.

**Meanwhile in the afterlife…**

Two smiling heads bent close together, observing.

"That's _exactly_ what I would have wanted!" Matthew and Sybil cried in unison

**THE END**

* * *

_Hope you survived the ride! Thanks for reading, enjoy the Christmas special, and I shall see you all on the other side!_


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